


This home, a castle dark

by yesterdaychild



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Depressed Steve Rogers, Depression, Domestic Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Hulk Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-02-27 20:43:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18746755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterdaychild/pseuds/yesterdaychild
Summary: [ENDGAME SPOILERS]Even though they won, Steve Rogers is very Not Okay. And truth be told, none of them are.This is not a fix-it fic.





	1. Feels like forever

**Author's Note:**

> Best read with:  
> Hurricane 2.0 - 30 Seconds to Mars feat. Kanye West  
> Play Crack the Sky - Brand New  
> Cemetery Weather - Isles & Glaciers  
> Always - Panic! At the Disco
> 
> Title from If You Could Read My Mind, by Gordon Lightfoot

It didn't even take two days for the nasty gash in Steve's arm to heal. In fact, by the time they laid Tony to rest, there was just a thin, fading scar where his arm had canyoned during the battle against Thanos. "Seriously, only you would use a leather strap to hold the two pieces of your arm together," Bucky had said, exasperated, jogging over when he noticed Steve wincing as he loosened his shield belt – after the battle adrenaline had faded, after the heartbreak, after the fires had died down. Then Steve had leaned on Bucky and they’d gone in search of help; just like old times.  
   
The Hulk had helped to carry Tony's body – so ultimately delicate, so finally fragile – to the burnt-out van. It was the only place on the whole battlefield that resembled anything like a decent place to rest. And as he lay Tony down, who among them did not think of the possibilities the quantum tunnel held…? But Professor Hulk just shook his head. Those dead had truly died; he himself had tried to bring Nat back, after all.  
   
In the meantime, Rhodey radioed the Air Force to say that they needed resources to dam a lake and work on the rubble of the Avengers facility. "We could probably use the rubble to dam the lake," he said, rubbing his chin and the grey hairs on it, eyes red from the soot and more. Wanda nodded, and went to build a temporary dam so Strange could be relieved. Then when they had arranged the fallen – Wakandans, sorcerors – for Strange to transport back to where they came from, the number of bodies was fewer than perhaps they’d hoped for, thank god. But even one was too many.  
   
Those who had been revived took over the clean-up effort, to give those who had fought for their return time to heal, time to put together the half of their hearts they'd suddenly regained, and then again minus the losses they'd suffered. At first, Professor Hulk bent his brawn to some of the heavy lifting, until Scott came to him in the evening and gently drew him to one side, holding a burrito or six in a bag. Everyone picking up the pieces that day pretended not to see the Hulk weeping into guacamole.  
   
But the next day was easier, and the one after that. They planned to only hold Tony's funeral after they had taken stock of everyone. Fury had popped up somewhere in New York and dashed over as quickly as he could, and he took over the administration of accounting for everyone. Most had already had tearful reunions, and some were even starting to get used to waking up to loved ones again. The business of cleaning up was, as usual, harder than the business of destruction. But – also as usual – it was also made lighter by the knowledge that all of it was going somewhere good. That the future was looking up. That half of them had gained a second lease on life – and it could begin again once the dead were buried and sent off. 

Bucky helped with sending the fallen Wakandans back through the sling ring, then he took his leave of the royal family and the friends he’d made there. He was grateful for their help, but he knew they would also need time to sort the kingdom out after the absence of their king for the past five years. The Wakandans bid a fond goodbye to their strange, white wolf. 

He was also looking forward to hanging out with Steve again for the first time in 70 – no, 80 years now. Maria Hill drove them back to Brooklyn. Bucky was going to stay with Steve, in a small apartment Steve had apparently kept all this time. He didn't quite know what to say to Steve on the ride back. How did you make conversation when there were five missing years your best friend had on you? What did you ask? He didn't know what emotional can of worms that would open up, and he certainly had nothing from the past five years to contribute to his end of the conversation either. 

But Steve fell asleep shortly after getting in the car, waking up only when they were rounding the corner to his apartment block. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Fell asleep.”

“When was the last time you slept?” Bucky asked. 

Steve shrugged. “Feels like forever,” he said. “Kind of lost track of the hours there a little. We did the time travel thing a couple of times, Tony and I…”

He stopped, then started rubbing his forehead as Hill pulled into parking. She peered through the rearview mirror at him. 

“I’ll text you Fury’s and my new numbers,” Hill said, “You’ll call us if you need anything, Captain Rogers?”

“Sure,” Steve said almost automatically, as he opened the car door. “Thanks for the ride, Hill. I’ll see you soon.” 

Bucky followed Steve up the stairs, then through the door he unlocked. He stopped short as he kicked a soda can. It skittered hollowly into the room.

“Sorry,” Steve said, looking a little embarrassed. “I wasn’t expecting company the last time I left this house.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky murmured, pushing Steve further in and closing the door behind them. “Look, why don’t you go take a shower?” 

Eventually Bucky had to herd Steve into the shower himself. When he heard the water running, he went back to the living room to look at it properly. He let out a low whistle when he saw the state it was in.

It had been a nice place, probably when Steve had first moved in. That would have been some years – more years ago; Bucky mentally adjusted for the five years that yawned blankly in his life. But now the room smelled a little musty. There were cobwebs in a corner. Take-out pizza boxes stacked on the table, from when Steve had apparently eaten pizza every day for a week and hadn’t bothered to throw any of them away. A rumpled blanket and a pillow on the couch.

Bucky went into the kitchen. Glasses filled the sink; the only thing that was really clean was a protein shake bottle. A milk carton set upon the kitchen counter had gone bad from when Steve had apparently forgotten it. Bucky looked under the sink for cleaning supplies (a practice that thankfully hadn’t changed since the 1940s) and found a trash bin liner. He found the broom and pan, took all the items back into the living room and began cleaning up as best as he could. Pizza boxes in the bag. Cobwebs, out. He threw open the windows to try to get the musty smell out of the flat. 

When he was done, he headed to the bedroom. The sheets were crumpled, the bed undone. Bucky went to his own duffel bag and changed into some clean clothes. Then, picking up the blanket and pillow from the couch along the way, he went back to Steve’s cupboards and rummaged around until he found clean sheets. He finished changing the sheets just as the shower was turned off. 

Bucky was sweeping the floor of the bedroom when Steve came out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist. 

“Oh,” Steve said, then almost automatically said, “Sorry you had to do this.”

 _Third time._ The forgetfulness, the lack of interest, the apologies. Bucky had seen those signs before, a lifetime of unworthiness ago. He guessed that Steve had put on a brave front all this time, but it didn't mean he'd actually coped.

Bucky didn’t respond directly to Steve’s question, but asked, “Are you hungry? Why don’t you put some clothes on and get us some take-out?”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Good idea.”

He started rummaging in his closet for clothes, and Bucky left the room. He kept tidying in the living room, then washed all the cups in the sink, then worked on dusting the living room and bedroom to try to lift the musty, dank smell that had sunk in the furniture. By the time Steve came back with noodles, stir-fried vegetables, and sweet and sour pork, the flat was starting to feel a little more liveable. And Steve seemed to be slightly more jovial too; at least he didn’t apologise again.

“Hope you like Chinese,” Steve said, snorting a little as he put the bags on the table, “It was the only place that was open and not celebrating.”

“At least now we know the Chinese will stoically cook through the apocalypse should it happen again,” Bucky joked. “Thanks for getting us dinner.”

They ate in silence, both realising they were hungrier than they thought they had been. Bucky realised this was technically his first meal after five years, which was a weird thought. When they were done, Bucky stood up to clear the takeaway packets into the bin liner he had stood up in the corner. 

“I’ll do this,” Bucky said. “Why don’t you go to bed, Steve?”

“It’s far too early,” Steve insisted. “It’s still light out.”

“You’ll feel a lot better, Rogers,” Bucky said gently, slowly turning to the sink. He left it there like a suggestion.

Sure enough, after Bucky took the trash out and came back upstairs, the light in Steve’s bedroom was switched off and Steve was nowhere to be seen. Bucky had to pass through it to take a shower anyway, since the only bathroom was ensuite, so he grabbed more clean clothes and opened Steve’s door.

He very decidedly did not look at the huddled form on the bed, then headed into the bathroom. He took his time, letting the hot water decompress him and the day, thinking about Wakanda and the border tribe. When he was done he used Steve’s towel, and tried to dry his hair as best as he could. 

Then he climbed into bed and under the covers, put his metal arm around Steve over the blanket, and pretended not to notice that Steve was still awake, pretended not to notice Steve beginning to shudder and sniff; only held him closer, only pressed his face into Steve’s shoulder, only covered Steve’s splintered arm with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a beautiful hurt/comfort fic in the Gundam Wing fandom called The Ion Arc. It was begun almost 20 years ago, and only ended in 2014. I thought a lot about it while I was writing this – about PTSD, depression, and how it’s the people who understand you the best, who’ve been through the same things who can begin to help you heal. The Ion Arc also portrayed tenderness and love as transformative, not just for the people who received it, but also for the people who gave it. Sure, this might sound like every hurt/comfort fic that’s out there, but I realised while writing this that it has become my tribute to Sunhawk’s memory and her lasting legacy, even if it’s not in the same fandom. 
> 
> RIP, Sunhawk.


	2. And you think, I gotta get them back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve tells Bucky what he's going to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The world has changed, and none of us can go back. All we can do is our best, and sometimes the best that we can do is to start over.”

When Steve woke up the clock in his bedside table said it was 8am. That was not unusually early, especially for him, but it did mean that he had slept for a little over 12 hours. Now that was unusual. And he'd slept well; certainly better than he had in the past five years.   
   
He sat up in bed and yawned. His eyes felt sore, his throat awfully dry. Then someone knocked gently on his door.  
   
"Ngruh,” Steve fumbled out, then cleared his throat. "Yeah, come in?"  
   
Bucky put his head around the door. "You awake? I made breakfast."  
   
Right on cue, the smell of bacon also wafted in. Bucky grinned as Steve's stomach gurgled very loudly and dismally.   
   
"Hurry up, or I'll eat everything," Bucky said, ducking out again.  
   
The previous night came rushing back. Steve was slightly mortified to remember that he had essentially cried in Bucky's arms until he'd exhausted himself and fallen asleep. He shifted, embarrassed, suddenly feeling small and skinny again. That explained why his head felt awful, at least.  
   
He headed out to the table, where a large glass of water was placed very conspicuously. Bucky came out of the kitchen bearing two plates of bacon and pancakes.  
   
“You learnt to make _pancakes_ in Wakanda?” Steve quipped.  
   
“Hand-milled corn flour, man. Their pancakes are the best,” Bucky deadpanned.  
   
Steve rolled his eyes. “Wakanda turned you into a hipster.”  
   
Bucky smiled as he put a plate down in front of Steve. “Drink your water, old man.”  
   
Steve sat down. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, beans – glowingly warm, overwhelmingly delicious; his mouth was beginning to water, and for some reason his eyes were also beginning to sting. It was far cry from the days of reheated pizza slices. He grabbed a fork and started eating before he could start bawling instead.  
   
Bucky watched Steve attack the food, inhaling it like a starving man. It made getting up early to hit the grocery store worth it. And it was good that he had, because even at 6 in the morning, the shelves were starting to look kind of empty, considering that there was now twice the population in New York City than there had been two days ago. He’d grabbed more canned food and non-perishables too, just in case.  
   
Bucky still only felt semi-stable, but it felt good to be back in bustling New York, where he'd grown up and where he belonged. He was finding the time disorientation less confusing than most others did - a nifty side effect, he drily thought, of having been mind-controlled and put under artificial sleep so often was that he was used to losing vast chunks of time.  
   
It had twinged something in him though, to see the remnants of the ‘MISSING’ posters still up on lampposts and bulletins, though some people had begun tearing them down. He couldn’t imagine what life had been like for the survivors of the past five years, coping with the grief of losing loved ones, the trauma of a genocide, the terror of unfinished business.  
   
He was beginning to be keenly aware that the revival wasn’t so much a tilt back into balance, as a clumsy lurch. At the grocery store some people had stood around sort of confused, because the store had rearranged the aisles when they’d downsized on the inventory, and now things weren’t where they used to be yesterday, which was really five years ago. It was a lot to wrap one’s mind around.  
   
But for Bucky, it hadn’t taken long for him to update his mental image of Steve to include those streaks of greying hair that were sprouting up on his temples. _So even we grow old,_ he marvelled, observing how the strands shone more silver than gold as Steve soaked up egg yolk with a pancake square.  
   
“Bucky,” Steve said quietly. “Thanks for this. All of it.”  
   
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Don’t you even dare mention it, Rogers.”  
   
“No, I mean it,” Steve shook his head. “My head’s in a really bad place, and you’re just taking it in your stride.”  
   
Bucky made an exasperated sound. “You’re not the only one who gets to charge into places and rescue people, Steve-o. And don’t forget, I’ve being doing this for you since 1930 – before you ever became hotshot Captain America.”

Steve snorted. “We've gotten our asses in so much trouble, huh.”  
   
"And out again, don't forget," Bucky grinned. Then his face softened into a gentler smile. "Steve. I never thanked you properly either. For getting me out of there. Sticking by me. Getting me to Wakanda."

Steve was shaking his head, looking down at his plate. "You would have done the same for me, and I mean, you have -"

"Yeah, " Bucky interrupted. "But the only reason I can help you now is because you helped me first."  
   
Steve looked up then, into Bucky's brown, soft eyes, smiling steadily back at him. It was really futile talking about their turn-taking as if it were some simple tit-for-tat. In the strange swath of their lives, in the century of their friendship, they only had this - the unswerving knowledge that they had to have each others' backs.

"You gotta ask for help when you need it, Steve-o," Bucky said lowly. "You don't have to do everything yourself. And you don't have to help the whole damn world while you do it."

Steve nodded, then cleared his throat as he stood up abruptly. He hid his face suspiciously as he picked up the plates and cutlery. "I'll do this. This was a great meal, Buck. Thanks."

While Steve washed up, Bucky hopped into the shower to wash some of the smell of grease off. When he came out, he found Steve on the couch in a white undershirt and pants, contemplating the thin scar on his arm.  
   
"What's on your mind?" he asked.   
   
"I've been thinking of taking the stones to the past," Steve said.  
   
"By yourself?" Bucky said.  
   
"Yeah," Steve nodded slowly. "There's something I gotta do."

"What's that?"

Steve opened his mouth but hesitated briefly, as if weighing the words he was going to say next.

"I saw Peggy. When Tony and I went back to 1970, some security were looking for us. I took cover in an office and it turned out to be Peggy's," Steve said, staring at the scar. "She had my picture on her table, Buck. The one from when I enlisted."  
   
_The one from when I enlisted._ It goes through Bucky like a shot. The one of skinny Steve, the Steve he'd grown up with, the one he'd instinctively wanted to protect even though he was so goddamn stubborn and didn't know his own strength.

"She thought of me for 30 years, Buck," Steve continued. "I gotta know if I have a chance."  
   
Bucky felt like his heart had plunged to his stomach. "What are you saying?"

"I'm sayin’, I know what it's like to think someone's dead and suddenly you find out they're alive. And you think, I gotta get them back. And sometimes time is on your side to do that," Steve said, looking straight at Bucky, so he knew he meant him. "And sometimes you're lying in a nursing home having spent your life with only a picture on your desk."

Bucky really didn't want to ask this question, but he had to know. "Are you going to come back?”

Steve kept looking straight at Bucky. “I don’t know, Buck. If I go back, and I talk to Peggy, I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know if I _can_ come back.”

Bucky felt - Bucky wasn't sure what he felt. He knew he was tongue tied. He knew his mouth had suddenly gone dry. He knew he suddenly felt a cold prickling at the back of his neck.

 "You know, I always thought we'd grow old together," Bucky finally said when he found his tongue. 

"We're not going to grow old together," Steve said wearily. "Look at you. Look at yourself in the mirror. Then look at me. Look at _this_." He pointed at his greying hair. "You're older than I am, but I’m ageing faster than you are. I'm going to go before you, Buck."

"It doesn't change the fact that you're the only one I've got," Bucky said, beginning to panic slightly. "You're the only one who's like me in this entire world.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Steve’s voice cracked as it rose. “I lost you, Bucky. I lost you. Twice. And the second time, you disappeared right before my eyes.”

"So now you're doing it to me?” Bucky demanded, voice going sharp. “Did you think I could afford to lose you? Dammit, Steve, I’m grieving too. Don’t you think I miss Natasha too?” 

Steve stopped and stared at Bucky, bewildered and hurt. "How could you say that?" he said quietly. "I lost you. Then I went into a suicide mission, woke up alone, and lost everyone. Then I lost Peggy. And then I found out you were alive and I _fought_ to get you back. Tooth and nail. So _you_ wouldn't have to wake up alone. So you wouldn’t have to die alone. And then I lost you again and worse, we lost half the world as well. We lost every hope this world ever had. And then we lost Nat. Nat’s _gone_ , and there isn’t even a body to bury."  
   
Steve was close to howling. He was shaking so hard that Bucky was afraid he was going to fall apart.  
   
“I’m done with losing people,” Steve gritted out. “I just want to go back. Live a normal life for once. I want to know what it’s like not to be a soldier anymore. The past five years, I spent them – in limbo. Stuck in the past, unable to move forward into the future – so purposeless. And now we’ve won. We saved the world. And I want to hang up this shield.”

Bucky took a step toward Steve, but he turned away from Bucky’s touch.

“But this world, this time, won’t let me have the life I want to live. And out there, somewhere in history, Peggy’s still thinking of me. She never gave up on me, even when she’d married someone else and had a family. And if I could have the chance to make some version of her happy, if I had the chance to make both of us happy, why wouldn’t I?”

Steve looked at Bucky, those blue eyes full of a pining pain Bucky had never seen before. Bucky took a step forward again, and this time Steve didn’t turn away when he laid a hand on his arm. 

“I just can’t talk about this right now, Steve,” Bucky admitted. “It’s too much. You’re telling me I might never see my best friend again.” 

“I know,” Steve whispered. “I’m so sorry, Buck. Things have changed so much.” 

Bucky finally found the word that had escaped him – the one that described what he was feeling. It was betrayal.


	3. The funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grief is a strange animal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Nothing I could do. It’s like I was up there just to watch. Some stuff you leave there, other stuff you bring back. It's our job to figure out how to carry it."

   
They went to Tony’s funeral the next day. Steve still had his motorcycle, and he was Bucky's ride. They still hadn’t really spoken since Steve had told Bucky his plans. But last night, Bucky had taken the couch pillow and blanket out to the living room and had lain awake for a good hour, thoughts in a turmoil, until Steve’s door opened and his silhouette was framed by the doorway.  
   
“If you want to come in, you’re welcome to,” Steve’s low voice a gentle rumble, inviting him in without being a peace offering.  
   
“’m just fine here,” Bucky said stubbornly. "You spent so many nights out here anyway.”  
   
There was no response from Steve for a while, just a pregnant pause. Then eventually, “…I only slept out there when I felt so alone."  
   
Bucky could have kicked himself, but instead he kicked the blanket off, gathered it all up, and went into the bedroom.  
   
He slept soundly that night. They both did; Bucky woke up to find Steve snoring gently, still curled up in the same position underneath his bionic arm. They didn’t talk about it; the same way they hadn’t talked about Bucky cuddling Steve through his crying jag the night before. In an odd way it was like World War II again, where things that happened between soldiers stayed in the field and were never spoken of. 

When Bucky woke up, he was hit by the same wave of disorientation, only oddly familiar because of how often he felt it. He took stock - the short golden hair just inches away from his nose, the quiet of the room with the sounds of the city waking up. He spent a second breathing through his nose, then rolled over and jumped into the shower.  
   
The ride upstate took more than an hour, and they rode it mostly in silence. Bucky refused to think about what Steve had told him while he rode pillion, gloved hands on his knees. Instead he spent the ride watching traffic; updating his impressions of New York; wondering at the feeling of riding over the Brooklyn Bridge in this century as the sun came up. 

The feeling of peace curdled into sorrow when they arrived at Tony’s and the gravity of the occasion sank in. It prompted Bucky to say, "Thanks for the ride," almost just to have something to say, as he stood by watching Steve put the motorcycle in park.

"Of course," Steve said, corner of his mouth quirking up in that damned distracting way, then turning down again quickly.

"You alright?" Bucky asked.

"Yeah," Steve said, then hesitated as he cast a look at the Starks' home. "I'm just glad to have fought by his side in the end."

Bucky put a gloved hand on Steve's arm. "I'm sure he was glad about that too."

It was with that kind of truce that Steve and Bucky walked into the Stark compound. Bucky took his gloves off to shake hands and hug the other Avengers. Tony's daughter peered out from behind her mother's arm when Bucky offered Pepper his condolences.

Then Morgan asked, irrepressibly curious, "Why are you still wearing your armour? Are you going off to fight?"

"Sorry, Sergeant Barnes," Pepper immediately said with a wan smile at Bucky. "She's only ever seen Tony wearing the glove of his Iron Man suit."

"It's alright, Mrs Stark," Bucky said, before crouching down to Morgan's height and smiling at her. "I lost my arm a long time ago, little miss. So this is my arm now. Wanna shake my hand?"

Morgan immediately put her hand in his, and Bucky marvelled at how fearless and grave she was. "It's nice to meet you, Mr Barnes."

"It's nice to meet you too, Miss Stark," Bucky said seriously. Then, as he shook her light, trusting hand, he tried not to think about how the hand she was shaking had technically murdered her grandparents. There was no good way to think about this wrong-handed greeting except as a form of absolution. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Steve put a hand on his back reassuringly as he stood up. Bucky gave him a small rueful smile; Steve always knew what he was thinking. 

The ceremony was small and intimate, but Bucky felt numb. He imagined himself above the scene, looking down like it was something happening to someone else; then somehow his thoughts slid to mapping out perfect vantage points to take up sniping positions. Horrible; inappropriate. He breathed in deeply, forced himself to snap out of it, to focus on the small bouquet floating away.

After that, they stood around drinking and snacking on the small catered line. Bucky sat alone while Steve was talking quietly to Professor Hulk in a corner. He ate a couple of sandwiches to tamp down on the corrosive doubt eating away at him. He wondered if he had forgotten how to grieve in all this time, if sorrow was something he could really feel, or just something he was forcing himself to believe.

He was wrestling with these thoughts when Sam came and sat next to him. 

"How're you doing?" Sam asked.

"Not feeling much, to be honest," Bucky admitted. Sam had seen the worst of him; he had little to hide from him.

"A little hard, huh," Sam said with a small smile. "Like you should be sad but you've forgotten how?"

Bucky gave him a surprised look.

"Yeah, well. I think those of us who have been through war can kinda relate," Sam said soberly. "It's a peculiar kind of numbness. Cruel. It makes you wonder if you don't feel anything because you're damaged."

"Yeah," Bucky breathed, relieved - then felt bad about it.

"Well, there’s lots of different ways to grieve. Try to think about something else for a bit," Sam said, breathing in deep and straightening up, and Bucky subconsciously followed. "Try to think of the people who've helped you. Who are good in your life right now."

Bucky closed his eyes. The first image – the kids in Wakanda who’d played with him. Then Shuri, T'Challa, Ramonda – who’d showered such practical little kindnesses on him, who’d hugged him close today. And then Steve. Golden, serious Steve, Steve who needed him and trusted him and let him take care of him. Then, unexpectedly, little Morgan Stark, with her wispy hair and small, grave hand.

The anxiety in his heart unknotted and loosened. Bucky opened his eyes.

"Feeling better?"

"You're good at this," Bucky said, then quirked a lopsided grin at Sam. "So good that I think I prefer this method of brainwashing over HYDRA's."

Sam laughed at that. "Man, you've got the same shitty humour as Cap does. I mean, you still scare the heck outta me, but I can see why you're friends."

Bucky quashed the sudden tightness in his chest at that. He still, it seemed, felt betrayed. "He's all I've got," he agreed.

"That can't be," Sam pointed out. "You kept your eyes closed for a real long time."

"That... is also true." Bucky looked at Sam properly now. "How about yourself?"

Sam shrugged. "Lost my parents when I was a kid. In a way it makes it easier to do this stuff, you know? I mean, I hope people are going to be sad if I go, but it's not going to change anyone's life." Sam saw the dismayed look on Bucky's face and held his hands up. "Well, I have friends. And there's the VA. Those things – those things keep me going." He peered at Bucky. "It's important to know things like that. What you want to stay alive for."

Bucky nodded almost absently, thinking – thinking.

"What's on your mind?"

"That I haven't had a reason to be alive for 70 years," Bucky said slowly. "If anything, with the things I've done - I don't deserve to be alive. But it feels good," Bucky blurted, surprising himself with his own admission. "It feels good to be alive. This morning, watching the sun rise - I wondered at how I am still alive. How _I_ am somehow still alive and somehow know who I am."

"And does it hurt to remember everything?"

"Of course it does," Bucky said, turning wide eyes onto Sam. Even when they'd been enemies the Winter Soldier had always displayed his emotions clearly on his face. Now that they were allies, now that the programming was undone, Bucky was even more like a child than ever - totally honest, open as a book to read. "But I would rather remember than not."

Sam looked at him appraisingly. Then, clapping Bucky on the arm, he said, "You're stronger than you think, soldier,” and the words sounded like an echo from 1945. "You're going to be just fine."

*

Steve had made it a point to seek out the Hulk during the funeral. He needed to talk to him before anyone else did, or before the Professor had any other plans.

“How’re you doing?” Professor Hulk said gently, just as Steve opened his mouth. He deflated slightly, and sighed.

“It’s hard,” Steve admitted. “It feels like this is it for the Avengers.”

“It’ll live on,” Hulk said, carefully patting Steve’s back.

Steve shook his head. “Nat was the only one keeping it alive for the past five years,” he said quietly. “Only she kept the faith. The others – did what they could. Followed her lead. And I just…”

“You did what you could too,” Hulk broke in. “Just because you weren’t out there fighting – defending – avenging – whatever – you were doing exactly what you could too. And it was important.” 

“What, kumbaya circles? Leading therapy groups so I could pretend it was some kind of therapy for myself too?” Steve snorted. “I should have been helping Nat. But I’d lost faith in the Avengers so long ago. And I shouldn’t have. Tony was right, all those years ago – I wasn’t there when he needed me to be. _We_ weren’t together. And it's my fault. And now they’re both dead.”

Hulk was helpless in the face of this regret. The past five years had been good for him. He’d finally had some peace and quiet to work on himself, no longer distracted by people knocking on his door asking to make use of the part of him he hated most. What he’d gained from that far outweighed how he would have struggled through the tedium of Avengers work. And in that time, he'd had time to come to terms with his own regret, with the Hulk sitting out of the fight with Thanos.

“Steve…” Hulk said hesitantly. “I wasn’t here too. It was a different time. It was hard. We coped any way we could. And the point is, when there was a chance of making it all right again, you leapt at it. You led us.”

“I wasn’t strong enough to keep the faith,” Steve shook his head. “I broke the Avengers apart for Bucky. And when I lost him, I crumbled with him.”

“But I mean – ” Hulk spread his hands helplessly. “Do you _regret_ saving him?”

Steve looked up at that. “No, and I never will,” he said resolutely. “But if I could do it again, I would do it differently.”

“Wouldn’t we all?” Hulk shrugged his shoulders sadly, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “But now they’re gone.”

They looked at each other in silence, grief hanging delicately between them. “I want to make it right,” Steve finally said. “Let me return the stones.”

“By yourself?” Hulk said incredulously.

“I’m the only one now who’s got nothing to lose, and who’s strong enough to survive anything out there. Present company excepting,” Steve nodded at Hulk. “But I’m not green.”

Professor Hulk considered the idea. “I was looking forward to meeting that guru again,” he admitted, “But it may be cleaner if one person does it all. Let me think about it.”

“Take all the time you need,” Steve said. 

*

On the way back home ( _home!_ ), Bucky hollered into Steve's ear, "You ever visit my grave?" 

"When I was in D.C., all the time, yeah," Steve yelled back. "It was just across the river. You?"

"Yeah, when I was – looking for myself, I guess," Bucky shouted. 

“We should go see it,” Steve called over his shoulder.

“What, now?”

“Yeah. You got any place better to be?” 

Bucky huffed a laugh. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep thinking the next chapter I write will be the last one, and then it's not, and instead I decide to send the boys off to D.C. They just have so much unfinished business. I'm so sorry this is longer than expected, but thanks for reading.


	4. Second chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arlington Cemetery, VA.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bits of this chapter were inspired by Ed Brubaker's Captain America: Winter Soldier arc.
> 
> I couldn't find a given date for when Bucky fell off the train, but seeing as it was early 1945 and early enough for it to still be winter, I gave him a death anniversary that has personal significance for me. If anyone knows the actual date, leave it in the comments!
> 
> There's still at least one more chapter left to this, maybe more. Thanks for reading.

They were in D.C. before sundown. After stopping by Steve's apartment for a change of clothes, they got back on the bike and rode out of New York, only stopping for gas and lunch.

"Well, this is familiar," Bucky snorted as they got on the causeway.

Steve's laughter rumbled with the roar of the bike. "The last time we were here together, you were trying to kill me."

"I was," Bucky agreed. "And Sam, and Nat, too."

There was a pause. It still felt - not fresh, but hard to believe. Having been through the theatre of war they both knew what it felt like to lose a comrade and not be there for it; for death to take place out of sight, in the wings. And sometimes there wouldn't even be a body to bring back, nothing to see and say goodbye to. All they could do was try to accept it and move on. 

It was hard, nonetheless.

"She fought well," Bucky said after a short while. "She fought to the end."

They turned into Arlington Cemetery a short while later. The World War II graves were in the newer part of the site, deep inside. Steve strode straight in like he remembered exactly how to get there, and Bucky had the feeling he had been here many times before.

By the time they were standing before Bucky's grave, the sun was beginning to hang low in the sky, casting a warm glow over the gravestones. So different from the last time Bucky was here. It had been raining buckets, which perversely had made it a safe bet that nobody would see him standing out here, searching for his own signs of life.

JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES  
SGT  
US ARMY  
WORLD WAR II  
10 MARCH 1917  
7 FEBRUARY 1945

He stared down at the headstone and felt - nothing. In many ways this headstone was true. Whoever James had been such a long time ago felt almost irrelevant to who he was today, he might as well be lost in time.

Except for one thing - that one person who had fought to haul him back from HYDRA.

"I used to come here every week, when I could," Steve said quietly. "After you went down, I told myself I'd go back to look for you after the war was over. But I never got the chance to. I went into the ice a week after that."

Steve was staring at Bucky's headstone, deep in his memories.

"And I tried to, when I woke up again. I took leave and went out to Germany again. But it had been 70 years, and the ice had thawed, and I just had to accept that there wasn't going to be a body."

Bucky didn't know that Steve had tried. "Is that why you came for me?" he asked. 

Steve shrugged. "I should have just reached hard for you and grabbed on tight. I should never have let you fall in the first place. And if we'd fallen, we'd have fallen together."

Ah. Regret. Bucky recognised that emotion. He struggled with it almost on a daily basis. 

"Well, then HYDRA would have had two soldiers with the serum, instead of one," Bucky said with light humour. "And I can't see you with a metal arm."

"Neither could I," Steve admitted, and he reached out to touch Bucky's bionic arm, almost shyly. "You look so different these days."

 _And in my head you're still a skinny spitfire. But those days are long over, aren't they?_ Bucky thought.

"Steve, I get it," he said out loud, "But this kind of thinking ain't gonna help. You can't change the past."

Steve snorted. 

"Ain't that the truth? But I kind of go around acting as if everything can be done over again. That we get second chances all the time," Steve said bitterly. "After Thanos, the first time - after the snap, Tony really gave it to me. He asked why we always do our best work after the fact. He mocked us, why we're always avenging after something goes wrong. And, you know, I think that's on me."

"Pal?" Bucky looked hard at Steve, his shoulders bowed in front of the grave. "Why are you beating yourself up about all this?"

"You remember the last thing you said? When you..." Steve made a scattering motion with his hand. 

"I think I said your name," Bucky replied.

"Yeah," Steve nodded. "I get nightmares. Where you disintegrate over and over again. Or you fall." He cleared his throat. "And it's always the last thing I hear."

"I'm sorry," Bucky said, even though he felt stupid saying it. It's not like he'd chosen which straw in Thanos' hand for his name to be on. But it was the sort of thing one said when one could make no better platitude. 

“I’ve been thinking about what you said, two nights ago,” Steve continued. “About how if I go back, you’ll be losing your best friend.”

Bucky shifted uncomfortably. He remembered it clearly, still felt the betrayal twist sharply in his gut.

“Don’t hate me for this,” Steve said lowly. “But waking up over the past five years with your voice in my head and not even having a way to mourn you was the first time I wanted to give up. I woke up one day and just thought, I can’t do this. If I thought the guilt from watching you fall off the train was awful, this was unbearable. There were days I woke up and wondered if there just was a way to erase my memories altogether. Of you. Of Peggy. Of the Howling Commandos, of Howard – of all the people I knew and woke up and found out they were dead or irretrievable.”

“Forgetting isn’t always the best thing to happen to a person,” Bucky reminded him quietly, and Steve looked up, apology in his eyes.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said sheepishly. “But I guess I was just trying to describe how things have changed so much for me. In some ways I felt like, maybe I’m being punished for coming after you. For breaking the Avengers up. For us being so unprepared for Thanos. I felt like I was going crazy, thinking myself in circles.”

“I get it,” Bucky said. “When the memories of the crimes I committed were coming back to me, I nearly went crazy with all of them. With bearing the weight of all of them.”

Steve smiled sadly. “I hate that you get it.”

Bucky chuckled. “That’s the crazy life we live.”

“Buck,” Steve said, moving closer to Bucky, looking straight into his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you. If my going back and possibly never coming back here is going to hurt you, just say the word.”

Bucky surprised himself by shaking his head.

“No, Steve-o,” he said, and huffed a dry, humourless laugh. “I’m not going to be the reason for any more of your regret.”

Guilt flooded onto Steve’s face. “That’s not what I meant,” Steve said, horrified. “I didn’t mean to suggest that you made me regret anything I did.”

“I’m well acquainted with guilt and regret, Rogers,” Bucky said. “I killed Howard. Little Morgan Stark has never known her paternal grandparents directly as a result of what I did. And I had to shake her hand today and comfort her about how she’s lost her dad too. At some point with dealing with all of it, I realised you can’t carry all this guilt. Not without processing it or trying to do something with it. It’s exhausting. It’s ridiculous. And it’s just not normal.”

Steve snorted slightly. "What exactly about our situation, all of it, is normal?" He turned a little to his left and gestured a few rows away from them. 

"There are others here, you know," he said. "After we died, there were other Captain Americas for a while, just until the war ended. The propaganda effort couldn't do without a Cap. Except those guys weren't super-soldiers, and the armed forces worked their way through them until the war ended." He shook his head, making a scoffing sound. "What's normal about all this? Even I had a gravestone here for awhile. And yet. Here we both are."

That was horrifying. Bucky thought about the things they'd done during the war. Some of them hadn't been things normal men could survive. It was downright cruel to put normal people through that just for the newsreels, for the sake of lifting morale, for fresh funds for the war effort.

But they'd won the war, hadn't they? Could Bucky count himself among the victors?

"Sometimes I think maybe I don't deserve any more second chances," Steve whispered. “I must have used them all up by now.”

“Alright, hold up,” Bucky said, putting his hands up. “Are you looking for someone to forgive you? Someone to tell you, ‘It’s going to be okay, go?’” Bucky shook his head.

"Steve, if you have to be selfish, then be selfish all the way. And be unapologetic about it. And I'm gonna have to be okay with that.” He stopped, surprised at what he was saying. But it felt _right_ , so he continued. "I told you I'm with you to the end of the line. That's what it means. You draw the path you wanna be on. And I'm by your side all the way, even if you don’t want me there anymore.”

Steve stood rooted to the spot with the ferocity of Bucky’s words.

“But if you’re going to go back into the past, and maybe stay there, don’t give me this bullshit about how you won’t go if I don’t want you to. You make your choices. If they’re good for you, I’m here to back you up. That’s what this all means. Even if it tears me apart.”

Bucky could see the tears welling up in Steve’s eyes, even if he was desperately trying to pretend it wasn’t happening. He closed the gap between them by putting his flesh arm around Steve, hauling him close into a tight hug. Steve put his arms around Bucky and buried his face in his shoulder.

And when he felt the tension leave Steve, Bucky pulled back and hissed straight into Steve’s face. “And don’t be fucking stupid about second chances. Yeah, not everyone gets them. But _you_ do. And you share ‘em. You don’t squander them. You grab them by the neck and wring them out for what they're worth. So don’t fucking dick around with Agent Carter. If you go back like this, carrying this much guilt and regret, you’re just going to end up drinking moonshine till you die.”

“Can’t die from moonshine,” Steve mumbled, “Serum won’t let me.”

Bucky socked Steve in the shoulder with his metal arm, but very gently. “You know what I mean.”


	5. In service of his country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve continue their D.C. mini-holiday and go to the Smithsonian together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mention of suicidal thoughts
> 
> Also this fic is 90% people talking, thanks for sticking by it regardless

It turned out that as official war vets – albeit oddly hale and hearty for their age – Steve and Bucky could technically just walk right into the Smithsonian, no reservations required.

It also turned out that the receptionist was a real stickler for regulations. She took Steve's VA card between two very manicured fingers, stared at the picture and the information on the card, then stared up at Steve again. She had a badge pinned to her cardigan that brightly announced that she was new to the job, right above a nametag that said her name was Lisa. Steve helpfully removed his baseball cap. 

"It says here you were born in 1918," Lisa said sarcastically. "That would make you 105."

"That's right, ma'am," Steve said, smiling at her.

"You certainly don't look it," she said. "This your granddaddy's ID? You know that won't work."

"No ma'am," Steve said, still smiling. "All mine."

She rolled her eyes, clearly exasperated by this charade. "Alright. Let me make a phone call."

The person on the other end of the line told Lisa to key Steve's details into the computer, while Steve and Bucky waited patiently. 

"Mmhm, mmhm," she said, tapping away. "Yes – " she held the phone away from her ear and addressed Steve. "You bringing a friend in as well?"

"That's right," Steve said. 

"And I guess he's a hundred years old too." She raised an eyebrow.

"106, actually," Bucky broke in, leaning across the counter and flashing his most charming smile at her. "But for you, doll, I'm not a day over 30."

The receptionist snorted, and carried on typing. "ID, please."

Steve looked over at Bucky. Bucky didn't really have ID - he was technically dead, but also technically still a fugitive from the Accords, and was wanted for a number of high-profile assassinations on American soil. But Bucky didn't seem too worried, and as he flashed a smile at Lisa, Steve had a hot flash of déjà vu – like it was the 1930s again, sneaking into places they didn't have any right to be.

"I forgot it, ma'am, sorry," Bucky said. "But I can write it down for you?"

She sighed and rolled her eyes again, then held out a clipboard and a pen.

Bucky scribbled down a line of text. Lisa gave them two entry stickers, and waved them along. They thanked her and scuttled away, still feeling admonished. And then they heard the next person in line ask Lisa, "Was that _Captain America_?"

And Lisa replied, "Who the hell is that?"

Bucky chortled. "Nice to know your mug still can't get you into places.”

"Shut up, smartass," Steve nudged Bucky in the side. “Not like yours can either, for once. What'd you write down, anyway?"

Bucky smirked and raised a finger to his lips. "How d'ya think I got in last time?"

They wandered into the World War II exhibit together. Ever since Cap had refused to sign the Accords and became a known associate of a fugitive, federal government had hesitated on over-glamourising Captain America and his predilection for the illegal. But the exhibit still drew in the crowds, so museum directors had compromised and dissolved the standalone into the larger WWII exhibit.

"They added more details about the Howling Commandos," Bucky nodded at the expanded information and artefacts.

"Yeah," Steve said. A sad sort of smile flickered over his face. "It's kind of weird to say this, but they feel more and more like people I _once_ knew. People from my past." He paused. "Is this what being immortal feels like?"

"We're not immortal," Bucky reminded him. "Just old."

“And ageing very slowly,” Steve said. “Certainly old enough to have lived more than it’s possible in one lifetime.” He paused for a moment. “It was a little weird, waking up and finding the world in a year I never thought I’d see. And that I still have so much time left to _have_ a life.”

“How’d you deal?” Bucky asked.

Steve went quiet for a bit. He was staring at an old suit of Dum Dum’s. He knew that on the description panel, it would list the artefact as gifted to the museum, courtesy of Dum Dum’s daughter. And that’s all it was, after all: an artefact – dead, left behind, and hollow; even if Steve could still hear Dum Dum’s grumble, if he paid attention to the memories rousing at the back of his mind.

“I nearly didn’t,” he said so quietly that Bucky almost didn’t hear him under the buzz of the people around them. “If I were to be completely honest with myself – if I hadn’t still been on active duty, if it hadn’t been for Fury pulling me into the Avengers, if it hadn’t been all that sense of duty – I might not have survived waking up and finding out I was Rip van Winkle.” Steve swallowed. “If I hadn’t found out that Peggy was still alive.”

“Steve,” Bucky searched Steve’s face. “Were you…”

In this day and age they’d finally found the words for it, but Bucky still couldn’t form his mouth around the words; didn’t know how.

“Depressed? Probably,” Steve said, half-looking at Bucky; almost not daring to. “Suicidal? Almost.”

Bucky breathed out, and was almost embarrassed by how his eyes stung all of a sudden. “I’m sorry you had to go through all of that alone,” he said.

“It’s not like you were around to – ” Steve stopped. “Well, not like you knew what was going on,” he amended. “It’s fine. I’m fine now. The sense of purpose – visiting Peggy – having Nat and Sam as friends – finding you again – it all helped.”

Bucky nodded. It was all he could, this little too late. They moved slightly on from where they were standing, just round to the end of the Howling Commandos exhibit, and ended up right in front of Bucky’s face from the 40s, squinting, tilted rebelliously, half-suspicious of the camera.

_Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country._

"I guess they're going to have to update that," Steve muttered.

Bucky can’t help but laugh. "As if that's the top of their priorities right now."

“We can’t have inaccuracy in a national museum!” Steve exclaimed, slightly outraged. 

“Well, first the general public needs to know I’m alive,” Bucky reminded Steve. “But I suppose that’s easier now that I’m one of the good guys.”

Steve snorted. “Please, it’s hardly ever easy, even being one of the ‘good guys’.”

He looked at Bucky. “You ever think about it though? How you’re going to have a whole new life now, and it’s part three or four but you still have so much longer to go?”

Bucky shrugged. He wanted to say he just took it one day at a time, but trouble was, he was done with living one beat at a time, looking no further than the next kill.

The words got stuck in his throat. Because he didn’t really know what was next for him.

Steve looked sidelong at him. “I guess you’ve thought about it, huh,” he said softly. 

“Not that the thinking did me much good,” Bucky tried to joke. “I never quite get very far.”

“Talk me through what you thought?” Steve prodded gently.

And Bucky told him. 

“If you narrow it down, there aren’t a lot of places in the world I belong. There’s Wakanda, but I’ll never be at home there, just a guest they tolerate,” he said. “There’s the Avengers, but Nat’s gone, and you – ”

Steve smiled sympathetically.

“Or I could start a brand new life,” Bucky continued. “But where? And that’s when I start wandering around the world in my head like some crazed nomad. But I don’t have a lot of transferable skillsets, so I might end up wandering non-stop or getting back into trouble again and dying in some ditch somewhere. At this point my thoughts try to scrabble quickly away and I end up circling back to thinking about the places I do belong again, and the whole cycle starts up again.

“So that’s where I am,” Bucky concluded. 

Steve put an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, casually, like Bucky once would have done to him. It helped. Bucky felt better. After a moment, Steve said: 

“Y’know, there’s gonna have to be a Captain America once I’m gone.”

“You think so?” Bucky said. “Thought you didn’t agree with them creating those other Caps after you went into the ice.” 

“Times are different, though,” Steve said thoughtfully. “Those guys weren’t super-soldiers. Hell, they weren’t super-anything. And these days we seem to be surrounded with them. If it ain’t born out of a test-tube, it’s mechanised and semi-automated.”

“Who’re you thinking of?” Bucky asked curiously. 

There really were only two options. Steve stared at the exhibit again, at Bucky’s face staring out at him. _His_ Bucky Barnes, from the 1940s. He felt so far yet so close to his best friend standing right next to him.

_Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country._

And in that moment, Steve decided. After lifetimes of obligation and only just beginning to figure out who he was again, this was what Bucky deserved.

“Sam Wilson.”

He was relieved when Bucky nodded. “He’s a good choice. Real stand-up guy.”

“He’s gonna need someone to teach him what being Cap is about,” Steve broached. “Maybe someone who’s been there from the start.”

It was a wonderful thing to watch – the light dawning on Bucky’s face as he realised what Steve was saying. And Steve was really, incredibly, relieved to see it.

“It’s still kind of odd to be taken care of by you,” Bucky drawled, but his face lit up with a smile. “Thank you, Steve. I’ll think about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you kind of feel there's a missing scene between Chapters 4 and 5? I might write it some day, and then I might write a shippy version, because I would like some stucky action in this fic, even if it's not even fanonical in this 'verse!

**Author's Note:**

> There’s a beautiful hurt/comfort fic in the Gundam Wing fandom called The Ion Arc. It was begun almost 20 years ago, and only ended in 2014. I thought a lot about it while I was writing this – about PTSD, depression, and how it’s the people who understand you the best, who’ve been through the same things who can begin to help you heal. The Ion Arc also portrayed tenderness and love as transformative, not just for the people who received it, but also for the people who gave it. Sure, this might sound like every hurt/comfort fic that’s out there, but I realised while writing this that it has become my tribute to Sunhawk’s memory and her lasting legacy, even if it’s not in the same fandom. 
> 
> RIP, Sunhawk.


End file.
